


Queers Are From Mars

by Fandomgeekery



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Austria's name is Rowan, College AU with Futuristic Themes, Cyborgs, Elizaveta gets stuff done, Gen, Gender Identity, Health Insurance, I guess you can read ships into this if you want, Legal Recognition of Gender Identity, Nonbinary Character, Queer Themes, Queer-Straight Alliance, Wheelchairs, a LOT of world-building for 4000 words, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 06:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10939329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandomgeekery/pseuds/Fandomgeekery
Summary: "As you can see, the forms ask for my gender. The forms offer two options, neither of which would be correct."In which Rowan Edelstein-- college student, musician, and Martian-- has an issue with health insurance forms.





	Queers Are From Mars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [I_am_a_Ruin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_a_Ruin/gifts).



“C’mon! Move it! Keep up, Marsh!” Gilbert shouted, combat boots slamming against the cement as he ran, perhaps just to show off that he _could_. Perhaps he was merely _that_ level of rowdy where he was not content in causing a ruckus with only his voice-- he had to make himself a being of noise in _every_ last aspect. Rowan Edelstein scowled, propelling the wheelchair forward and down the ramp after him. Their lungs wheezed and strained from the exertion, though it was not much.

Ah, Mother Earth. It teemed with life, color, and insurmountable beauty. No matter humanity’s efforts, it would _always_ be the gem of the solar system. There was a reason Rowan had chosen this planet for their studies.

Rowan’s dreams of humankind’s home planet had glossed over its flaws for the most part. It was not that they were naive; they had merely chosen to be optimistic. How else was an artist to survive?

Earth was the home, the _origin_ of raw human creativity. It just so happened also to be the home of an endless supply of the lowest order of miscreants. Further, Rowan had been warned about the gravity. Rowan was _aware_ of the time they would be set firmly in a wheelchair as their body adjusted. They were _not,_  however, quite prepared for the _allergens_. Millennia of cycles of growth and decay and death and _dust_ and _humans_.

Their lungs strained, working harder against the press of gravity and the pollution-- whether as natural as pollen or as human-made as fossil fuels.

“We need to strap jets to that damned roll stool! We want to get there before closing, _mein GOTT_! Could you be any _slower_ , Marsh?!” Gilbert yelled, partially over his shoulder but mostly at the sky. Rowan sighed but did not bristle.

It seemed to be the nickname that stuck: Marsh. Maybe it would be more aptly spelled ‘Mart,’ but _marsh_ was how the others pronounced it. Honestly, as if Rowan was some sort of _swamp creature_. It was not particularly an insult, they supposed, nor did the other students treat it as one. It was a label nonetheless. _Martian_ , it was short for.

Rowan could not fathom the need to make the distinction. _Really_ now, it was not as if Rowan referred to Gilbert or any of the others as _Earthlings_ or _Venusians_.

Granted, the Lunarians often got stuck with the rather unsavory ‘ _lo_ _onies_ ,’ but such individuals were few and far between.

The labels, the endless labels. It was a testimony to humanity’s eternal affinity for _labels_ and simple explanations cutting out complexity. All of their life, people had attempted to press Rowan down under more labels and explain them and their experiences away. _It will help you_ , people would argue. _You will find a sense of community and like-minded people with open arms if you would only define yourself in words we can understand._

It was undeniably true, in a way. It seemed to work for _everyone else_ , that is. And it worked to an extent for Rowan themself.

Rowan would fit nicely under the _T_ in LGBTQ+, they knew. Whether they fit under some sexual or romantic preference, they would not know. They had contemplated it a bit in their younger years when labels were lifelines for them to grasp, but it had been endlessly frustrating.

Rowan was a person of the _arts_ , of poetry and music and beauty and humanity and life and complexity. They did not scoff at the labels, but they saw no need for them in their own life. Could, perhaps, the labels even be a hindrance? Another box, another expectation to fill? No. They would not have it.

So, they were nonbinary. Neither male nor female, something outside of that. ‘Gender nonconforming,’ some people liked to say, which Rowan decided they rather liked as well.

The option of ‘Other’ on lists. The marker of ‘X’ rather than an F or M on their visa, on their identification card. The honorific of ‘Mx.’ addressing them in paperwork. Even the lack of specification to ‘they/them,’ their most basic form of third-person address. _That_ was how Rowan could be identified. _That_ was how they could be labelled: None of _that_ , the usual nonsense.

“Cut the poetic inner reflection and _move it_ , Marsh!” Gilbert whined, reading their distant expression if not their mind.

“I have no idea _why_ you are in such a hurry,” Rowan huffed. “As this _is_ about me, not you.”

“Because you are crazy slow!” was the simple explanation they were given. Rowan rolled on, despising the government protocol that provided them with the cheap wheelchair. Not even motorized! Of course, the government claimed that this was to aid the adjusting process. Rowan, however, was certain that the primary reason was little more than frugality.

The building looked tall and imposing before them, built for large size rather than aesthetic beauty. A monolithic flight of stairs or a ramp were to be faced before entering, giving the structure an inflated sense of importance.

Rowan was breathing heavily by the time they reached the top of the ramp, lungs laboring against this place. It was not as if the colonies of Mars did not make attempts to mimic Earth’s atmosphere; plants, animals, and entire ecosystems grew freely in the enclosed colonies. After all, if humans born in the synthesized environment were never exposed to germs, to bacteria, to _dirt_ then how would any of them be able to come back to Earth safely?

Nevertheless, the air was much cleaner than anything Earth hoped to offer anymore. And Rowan had had to get their fair share of inoculations against diseases that could not be safely simulated in the colonies. Rowan’s body rebelled against Earth in every way just as much as they were drawn over millions and millions of kilometers to experience its _wonder_.

Gilbert snorted and spat over the railings. ‘Wonder,’ indeed.

The two entered the building, greeted by a directory sign and an endless choice of doors, hallways, and offices. Rowan was _also_ greeted by Elizaveta bursting out of nowhere (or, perhaps, one of the chairs offered for those waiting on appointments) to hug them as best she could in the wheelchair. She then proceeded to punch Gilbert in the arm.

Elizaveta was the first friendly face with which Rowan had come into contact here on Earth. She and Gilbert, friends who acted like they hated each other, had introduced Rowan to the college’s network of support available to queer students. It was nice. Eliza was a big organizer of many activities on campus: determined, passionate, tough as nails, and never failing to gush about how _proud_ and _supportive_ she was of Rowan. Gilbert just showed up and took up as much space as he pleased, yet he never stooped to inching around Rowan as if they were a fragile creature.

Though, Gil became rather unpleasant at times because Rowan was, admittedly, rather fragile. And Eliza would shy away from certain topics and certain words as if they may not be able to handle it. Gilbert occasionally pushed a bit too relentlessly. Elizaveta occasionally pulled her punches with them a bit too carefully. Together, the two were Rowan’s closest friends-- beautifully flawed, beautifully human.

Both had agreed to come with them today. Eliza was set on making a bold statement, about valiantly standing up for Rowan in the face of friction, about being there for what she viewed as setting a strong precedent for the LGBT+ community at the college. Gil wanted to see if Eliza was going to punch anybody and if he could get it on video (oh, and also break it up too, of course, he would add).

Rowan just wanted to get their paperwork properly sorted out. They weren’t _looking_ for some sort of conflict. There should be no fight or friction.

Following the signs of the building, they came across the correct door. They entered without knocking. Gilbert and Elizaveta flanked them embarrassingly like makeshift bodyguards.

They should have knocked; someone was already there.

“-- Like I said, I think we have very different ideas as to what constitutes as my biological sex considering I am literally mostly _inorganic material_! What do you expect me to…” the woman trailed off. She looked a bit shaken at the sudden appearance of the intruders, turning a bit red and straightening under three sets of eyes.

She avoided their gaze with one human eye… and one digital.

Rowan had seen robotic prosthetics before. They had heard rumors and seen documentaries about miracles worked by the era’s advanced robotics being instituted alongside bionic tissue-- whether animals or human. They had never seen such extensive work performed on a human.

She had creamy white skin, soft pink lips, a striking green eye, and coarse yellow hair. Her right hand appeared natural as well. Nothing else uncovered by her clothing seemed to be her own organic flesh and blood.

Silvery metal traced the line of her jaw on her left side, curving around her mouth before replacing the skin of her left eye and her nose. Her hair was parted to the side in a half-hearted attempt to cover the bare metal covering half her cranium. Below the neck, little to nothing seemed to be human aside from her right arm.

Eliza said nothing, always making an effort to be respectful of others’ situations, but she was clearly taken as much by surprise as anyone else would be. She hid it reasonably well. Rowan had become familiar with similar reactions and recognized it nevertheless.

Gilbert, on the other hand, possessed a sorely limited verbal filter that did not extend to times such as these. “Ooh, that’s so awesome! I’ve never seen an android!”

The woman’s expression soured, instantly becoming defensive (which was doubly intimidating with that lightly glowing robotic eye). “I am _not_ an android!” she growled. “I am _human_ … with some less-than-human parts…”

“‘Cyborg’ is the word my idiot acquaintance is thinking of,” Eliza piped up helpfully. This insertion did not seem to improve the woman’s mood. Humanity’s infatuation with labels had no end.

“Do not try to _define_ a person before you know their _name_ ,” Rowan gently, but quite pointedly, suggested. They rolled forward a bit. “My apologies. My name is Rowan Edelstein. I prefer they/them pronouns, if you would.” They held out a hand.

“Adelheid Zwingli. She/her,” she seemed a bit surprised by Rowan, but pleasantly so. The two shook hands. Then Adelheid shook the hand of Eliza and Gil as well.

“It is good to meet you, Adelheid Zwingli. We will allow you to return to your business that we so rudely interrupted--”

“No, no! It’s fine! I-I was just leaving! I think I’m done here…?” she threw a questioning glance at the man who was waiting patiently behind the desk.

“Yes, go. I am unsure of the protocol for your _particular_ situation. I will make an inquiry about it,” the man said reasonably, making a note.

Adelheid Zwingli hurried to escape from the room, but Eliza caught her arm much to her displeasure. “Hey, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Adelheid. Do you wanna come to the Queer-Straight Alliance this evening? Awesome group for support no matter what you’ve got going on.” Adelheid’s eyes flicked to each one of the individuals occupying the room in turn as she scrambled for an answer. Settling for a noncommittal shrug, she hurried away.

The man behind the desk looked up at the group now facing him. “Now, how can I help _you_?” he asked, tiring of his job. Eliza shifted beside Rowan, seemingly readying herself for a torrent of defense on behalf of the musician.

“Yes, hello. I am Rowan Edelstein,” Rowan introduced themself, carefully articulating their name so that the man could look them up in the school records if he so chose. “Now I understand that this university is wishing to do its students and staff a grand favor by providing a mandatory means of health care in exchange for our valuable time and money.” The staff member nodded before Rowan had finished, hesitant.

“Our people are our most important resource. Offering health care is the least we can do for them after all everyone does for us.” Rowan recognized the company line.

“Right. Of course. I just have some questions about the forms I am being required to fill out--”

“None of them are trick questions!” the man chortled, trying to make a good-natured joke. Rowan offered a thin smile for his effort.

“I would not dream of it. _However_ …” Rowan knew no better way to present their case than to hand the worker their interplanetary passport and other college registry forms. The man glanced the legal documents over. Then, he took a slightly longer look. A shadow of malcontent for his job passed across his face; he knew precisely what this was going to be about. Rowan placed the health insurance forms down in front of him as well. “As you can see, the forms ask for my gender. The forms offer two options, neither of which would be correct. I attempted to leave the section blank as to not cause a fuss, but they returned the incomplete form for me to finish. I have chosen to bring my inquiry to you. My legal documents are all in order here.” The man considered his answer carefully before speaking.

“I understand the issue you are having with the forms!” he said in a falsely cheery and apologetic tone. “As a matter of fact, you are not the only one to ask about this _particular_ section! Not many have such…” he reached for a word with a shrug. “ _Helpful_ paperwork.” Eliza raised an eyebrow menacingly from her place beside Rowan. The man shrugged again, sighing. “I will give you the same answer I gave the others: we are wanting to efficiently provide quality health care services to everyone! Therefore, this section is looking for your _biological sex_ as opposed to your gender identity. No one is looking to invalidate your identity, but we need that information to give you your health care! After all, things like prostate or breast cancer can strike no matter an individual’s identity!”

“That’s _bogus_!” Eliza interjected, slamming her hands down on the man’s desk in a flurry of long hair. “That’s totally erasing the entire _intersex community_ AND it DOES invalidate trans peoples’ identities TOO!” The man blinked up at her calmly, unmoved. Rowan stepped (wheeled?) in.

“My friend brings up valid points. Moreover, it is a physician’s duty to be able to provide health care services catering to an _individual_ patient’s needs, whether that person be a man, woman, or otherwise. A physician must have the ability to assess the unique needs of a patient. It is not the duty of an insurance care provider to determine what my individual needs may _be_ based solely upon my sex, but to insure me in the event that issues arise.”

“I don’t make the rules--”

“Sir, please listen. You stated yourself that I am not the only person that has issues with these forms. Our voices must be heard. Especially in the cases of transgender people or, yes, as Eliza said, intersex people, the health risks that individuals may face cannot necessarily be determined with the checking of a ‘male’ or ‘female’ box.” Rowan’s voice rose in volume in such a way that Eliza looked on proudly. “Transgender people that are on hormones or have underwent surgery simply do _not_ have the same issues as our cisgender companions. They may or _may not_ fit in your boxes. I cannot speak as much from experience on intersex people, but _biologically_ they may or _may not_ fit in your boxes. Our health care is not about boxes, but about our individual needs. Insuring our _gender_ may not insure our person.”  

“Well said!” the man smiled, trying to make himself sound genuine. “I, however, am not equipped to handle issues of social justice. My superior just has me telling people to check the boxes according to what was originally on their birth certificate.” Eliza opened her mouth to object more, but Rowan put a hand on her shoulder. The man was not some malicious symbol of oppression; he was only doing his job. Yelling at him would do nothing but further sour what had likely been a long, exhausting day.

“Thank you for doing your best to answer my question,” Rowan told him.

“Wow, that almost didn’t sound snobbish,” Gilbert oh-so-helpfully commented from the corner. Rowan moved to wheel themself out of the room.

“You make an interesting case, kid,” the staffmember called after them before they could leave. “I can probably bring it up again to my supervisor. Especially because, you know, you’ve got this stuff on _legal documentation_ and whatnot. It seems almost, I don’t know, _fraudulent_ to make you say something otherwise on your form.” Rowan smiled slightly at him.

“My thoughts _exactly_ , sir,” they mused. “But just because the government has decided to agree with me does not mean that trans people _without_ my extensive ‘legal documentation’ do not apply to this situation.” The man said nothing more.

“I can’t promise anything will _change_ , but I’ll bring up this thing when I bring up that cyborg girl’s thing.” Ah, so Adelheid Zwingli seemed to be having troubles with the forms as well. “I think they’ll go alongside each other pretty well,” the man carried on, possibly breaking some rule about privacy. “I mean, what are you supposed to do if someone is legally recognized as neither male nor female? And what are you supposed to do if someone’s anatomy is mostly _robot parts_ , am I right?”

“Doesn’t sound related at all to me,” Gilbert scoffed, though he seemed intrigued by the thought of ‘robot parts.’ Eliza smacked him for it, though he had not technically _voiced_ objectification or fetishization of Adelheid’s anatomy. He put up his hands defensively. The staff member shrugged, indifferent as always. He went back to typing into his computer, dismissing the three without a word.

 

After a dinner of reasonably well-prepared college cafeteria food, most of which was spent listening to Eliza and Gilbert bicker back and forth, it was time to attend the usual Queer-Straight Alliance meeting. The meetings did not often live up to Eliza’s dream of a mobilized, coordinated army to fight against the injustices still faced by the LGBT+ community, but the atmosphere was pleasant. The group had its own room in a college student center and it was always packed full with those who preferred what was mostly Eliza’s brain child over the other supportive equality groups around campus.

Rowan’s wheelchair was hard-pressed to find room enough even to enter the small, windowless space that the students tried to kick life into with colorful posters, banners, and pride flags.

After enough complaining on their part and reluctant shuffling around on others’ parts, they won their place within the crowd.

It was business as usual. People were chattering on about long school days with companions, laughing and socializing. Then, Elizaveta stepped up onto a chair, halting the conversations and earning everyone’s undivided attention. The others had learned, after all, that Eliza did not take too kindly to being ignored or interrupted.

This was not uncommon. Eliza was typically the individual to set a more organized, focused meeting into motion. “Oh look, Marsh,” Gilbert leaned over and stage-whispered to Rowan. “She’s gonna make a _scene_!” he snorted and laughed. Eliza, red with anger, glared him down. Rowan did not read too deeply into this; these were typical interactions between the two.

However, the dismissal of this exchange left Rowan entirely unprepared for when Eliza _did_ make a scene. “Excuse me, everyone!” was how she started, charming and polite in tone. “Injustice is running rampant through our campus!” This, too, was a normal introduction to whichever topic Eliza planned to hone in on. “And it is being forced upon our student body! I am speaking, of course, about the improper handling of the school’s new health insurance policy for all!”

Oh, so this was about Rowan.

As much as the artist and musician _appreciated_ recognition… Well, they certainly lavished in recognition in most of its forms, but their hesitance about their health insurance forms being a hot topic of discussion _without forewarning them of this_ remained valid. Certainly, Rowan could have worn a different shirt.

Oh well, better it was _them_ being focused upon than those affected by this who _did not_ long for the spotlight.

“Your gender deserves to be validated!” Eliza was telling the group. “And you are deserving of healthcare that fits you accordingly!”

There was a tap on Rowan’s shoulder, light and unsure. Rowan twisted in their wheelchair and met the eyes of none other than Adelheid Zwingli. She had decided to accept Eliza’s invitation. “Can I speak with you for a moment?” the woman asked, quiet enough not to be heard by anyone else. Rowan blinked up at her, internally wondering if this would disrupt Eliza’s speech or, more importantly, if it would cause them to be missing when Eliza got to the part about _their_ troubles as her shining example.

“I suppose,” Rowan answered regardless, not one to be uncivil.

They received a surprisingly limited amount of annoyed sighs as they maneuvered their wheelchair around to follow the woman out of the room. Eliza did not pause her passionate monologue on their account.

The evening was crisp and cool. Wind blew lightly through the trees and through their hair-- an experience that was rather new to them as the convection currents from Earth’s atmosphere were a significantly greater force of nature than the light breezes sometimes felt from the Mars colonies’ air vents. The moon glowed silver above them, a source of inspiration for generations upon generations of poets. Martian moons lacked such aesthetic appeal. Perhaps Earth would always be the proper breeding ground for the best of artists.

Rowan’s moment of wondering at the normalities of Earth, so commonplace for those born here yet to Rowan endlessly magnificent and exotic, was shattered when Adelheid wheeled around to face them with the quietest hiss of pneumatic systems. Rowan stared at her, taken aback by her sudden fury. “Did you _seriously_ call a meeting to discuss the gender options on the _health care forms_?!” she demanded to know. “And you have the gaul to invite _me_ here?! I am not some _animal_ on display at your will! Not some sideshow oddity to be gawked at or _felt bad for_! I--”

“Adelheid Zwingli, none of this is my doing,” Rowan gently inserted. “Do you disagree that there is an issue with the forms?”

“Of course not! _I_ have problems with the forms! But it does not give you-- _any_ member of your group, I don’t care who planned this!-- any right to make me some public face of this! I already have _enough_ creeps staring at me and automatically wondering what the parts of my body hidden under clothes are like!” she snarled. Rowan suppressed a small chuckle; the staff member had been correct-- how alike Rowan and Adelheid were.

“I understand your concerns. If it makes you feel better, Eliza did not inform me that she was going to make a stand at the group. It is all too easy to request that she leave specifics out of it. I do not have a problem with being made an example for such a cause, but nobody wants to force that role on you.” Adelheid, so puffed up with defensive anger, deflated slightly as she relaxed.

“Thank you… Uh… Sorry for blowing up at you…?” Adelheid formed her apology like a question.

“You should not need to apologize for standing up for yourself,” Rowan advised her sagely. She shrugged one shoulder. She was silent for a moment, only the sounds of nature and distant voices able to be heard. Then,

“Thanks, by the way, for not questioning me about _how I became_ a cyborg. It’s usually one of the first things people ask,” she blurted, rubbing her neck awkwardly. “I mean, that whole ‘oh my goodness what _happened_ to you?!’ sort of reaction to seeing me for the first time. You didn’t have that. I appreciate it. It’s kinda nice to feel normal.” Rowan smiled at her.

“Adelheid Zwingli, don’t you know there’s no such thing as normal?”

“Says the genderless person from Mars to a woman who’s 75% robot.”  

“Pardon me, but I _have_ a gender. It is merely outside of a binary manner of thinking.”

“Sounds like you’ve rehearsed that.”

“I _am_ but a humble performer, Adelheid,” Rowan reminded her. A burst of laughter startled both of them.

“Humble?!” Gilbert screeched as though it was the most hilarious thing he had heard in a long while. “Oh, that’s a good one, Marsh! Now get back in here! ‘Liza is going to set up a meeting with the local college board fat cats! She wants you there because you’re the best queer from Mars she’s got!” Gilbert disappeared back inside, though the door only muffled his defense against Eliza chiding him for his word choice. _“Okay, but the awesome me can get away with it because I AM_ _queer!”_

Rowan laughed lightly to themself. Perhaps if Earth was the perfect origin for artists, then Mars must be the ideal spawning point for ‘queers.’ What about, then, the colonies on the Moon? Or Venus? It was a silly idea, but Rowan allowed themself to entertain the notion for just a moment longer out in the brisk night air.

“Would you like to join me back inside?” they asked Adelheid. “You do not have to, as my friend Gilbert would say, _make a scene_ to make a difference.” The woman was hesitant, but she slowly allowed a smile onto her face.

“Sure. Why not?”


End file.
